Fixing cars and fixing ribs

Published 4:00 am, Monday, September 29, 1997

1997-09-29 04:00:00 PDT SAN FRANCISCO -- MASON AND LARKIN. I'm just cruising this fine early morning when a young man flags me from a garage. He's smiling and says he just got off work a little early. Home for him is out on Third near the 'Stick. I ask where he works. "Tony Roma's," he says. I say I've been there a few times and the food isn't bad. He works there in the evenings, he tells me. Daytimes, he works for his brother's car repair business. He says he'll show me where.

We pull up to his address and there are cars everywhere - on the street, on the sidewalks, in front of a few houses.

"This is it," he says. "My home and the repair shop." I mumble something about low overhead. He gets out, still smiling. "My brother's making so much money, he's buying a fourth house on this block. That's going to be my own auto repair shop." I head back downtown.

MARKET AND SIXTH. I just drove some tourists from the Zuni Cafe and dropped them off at Sixth, when five teenagers pile in. Four girls and a boy. "Oakland please," one of them yells. Then, "No, let's go to Candlestick first, the back way through Third." Three of them are smoking cigarettes and the others are jumping around like they're on something. I've been through this movie before.

Who has the money? I ask the girl sitting next to me. She says they'll pay when we get there. I tell her they jumped in, smoked without asking me and some of them are acting like they're on drugs. Then I say I'm not going to Candlestick. The girl next to me tells me to get out so she can kick my ass. Then they all get out, screaming and hollering. I drive away thinking: I don't need this kind of stress.

FAIRMONT HOTEL. I just remembered this from the mayor's conference a few months back: I pick up a young woman running out of the hotel. She says she can't wait to get home. "I work in the New Orleans Room and all those mayors worked us pretty hard tonight," she tells me. I ask if they're heavy drinkers. "Tonight they were. One of them kept telling me it's easier to listen to Willie Brown when you're tanked." What was his name? I want to know. "I don't remember, but he weighed about 250 pounds."

MARKET AND DUBOCE. There's Market, then there's the rest of The City.

A woman in a red dress waves me down in front of Mecca. In no time, we're headed to Upper Market. She asks if she can smoke a small cigar. Yeah, sure, I tell her, as long as it's Cuban. "I have no idea what it is," she says, and shows it to me. I see it has a Cohiba wrapper. It's Cuban, all right, and expensive. Where did she get it? "I was standing at the Macy's Passport Show and a man standing next to me gave me a couple."

I tell her they're illegal to import, but not to own or smoke. I'll take one as a fare, if she wants, I say. As we pull up to her address, she tells me it's a deal. She gives me the Cohiba. I look at the meter and it says about $8.

TURK AND HYDE. I get flagged by a guy on the corner who's wearing boots and a cowboy hat. He's from Arkansas, going to the Fairmont. After he gets in, he tells me a joke about a hooker and her john. It's about the hooker owning a big house nearby because she's great at oral sex. The guy agrees, but also wants another kind of sex. She says if she had the particular female body part involved, she'd also own the hotel. Only it was much more graphic.

When he gets out and pays me, he says, "I know Bill Clinton knows that joke because I got it from Roger Clinton's ex-wife's boyfriend. He said it came from Clinton himself."

JONES AND PINE. It's 2 a.m. and I'm coming down the steep hill from California. I don't expect someone to just jump off the curb in front of me. But this guy, about 30 wearing leather pants, does. He's just come out of a Nob Hill gay bar. I slam on the brakes and screech to a stop. You want to get killed, don't you, I yell out the window. "No," he says, "I just wanted a cab and was afraid you wouldn't stop. I need to go to Ringold, fast!" We get to that alley, off Market and Eighth, and his eyes light up. "I'm going to have some fun, now," he says, paying me. I look down the street and see about 15 male hookers standing around in different poses. He gives me $20 and gets out before I can give him his change.

CALIFORNIA AND SIXTH. This guy has a lot of band equipment with him as I pull up. I get out and help him put his stuff in the trunk. He's going to the Hotel Utah, where he's playing tonight. "My name's Eric," he says, and the band is Steak. "Ever heard of us?" I tell him I've heard of Meatloaf and Wavy Gravy. "We're a be-bop band. On the side, I make these ball caps for my company, BMA, which stands for Baddest Man Alive." As we head down Franklin, he gives me three. "They're yours." At the Hotel Utah, there's a line of people. "My fans," he says. I help him unload. As I drive off I remember one of my daughters asked me for some ball caps she could take on a trip. All three of the hats ended up in Jamaica, and got left on the heads of three little kids who live there, from what I understand.

The Night Cabbie appears every other Monday in The Examiner. You can call him and leave a message at 777-8738, write him c / o The Examiner, P.O. Box 7260, S.F. 94120. Or send e-mail to cabbie@examiner.com.&lt;

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